Across the hundred seas
by Stars.Are.Metaphors
Summary: 'I see you've awakened.' His voice has a deep drawl to it, soft and content with its barer. Suddenly she feels cool metal press against her cheek, a point as sharp as a fine butchers knife threads across her skin and dwells into her hair. 'Princess.'
1. Hunting a crocodile

**Genre: Adventure/Romance**

**Paring: Killian Jones, Hook/Emma Swan**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Notes: I'm sailing on the Captain Swan ship and I think the wind is speaking to me as I write and the sea water is making me a little delusional. Don't mind me… This story is AU.**

…

**Across the hundred seas**

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**…**

**…**

**…**

''I see you've awakened.'' His voice has a deep drawl to it, soft and content with its barer. Her ears pitch at the shuffling of feet, he nears. Without the aid of her eyes, covered behind a blindfold, she dreads what is to come next. Suddenly she feels cool metal press against her cheek, a point as sharp as a fine butchers knife threads across her skin and dwells into her hair. ''Princess.''

And Emma almost _laughs_ at the sheer knavery of it all.

Here she is, in the vicinity of the world's most wanted pirate, the most crafty and dreaded of them all. A brave one, the stories have said, a cunning one, the kings have roared, a feared one simple merchants have whispered.

And yet, the great and almighty pirate Hook; the captain of the undisputed Jolly Rogers, first to have ever left Neverland and the slayer of the Shadow in the North, had managed to steal _the wrong person_.

* * *

The nightgown was wrenched around Emma's middle. She struggled, clawed at her attackers in an ostensible pretense of self-defense. She was taught better, Emma wields a sword the same way Princess Belle memorizes a book of four hundred pages in a matter of hours. Only this time she held back, ignored the variety of weapons she could use. The lamp at Belle's bedside for example or the warm woolen blanket bundled as a pillowcase underneath her head. She would be saddened to leave that behind.

One of her attackers grunted in his effort to keep her still, she reached out her fist, had it soar ahead in the dim-lit room and felt the ends of knuckles make contact with flesh. A grunt, thick, and a drowsy stumble backwards.

''All Seas! I think she broke my nose!''

''Shut up, fool,'' the one who was endeavoring to keep her still had finally managed to turn her on to her stomach. But she wrestled still, decided that if this was the way she – _ahem_ _Princess Belle_ – was supposed to be taken, than it would only be justified if she left having done damage.

She wrung out her wrists too easily from her attacker, elbowed him in what felt like thin flesh and hard bones. His ribs. He gasped.

It struck her then that if she managed to actually _free_ herself; neither she nor Princess Belle would be captured. And though she had agreed to go ahead with this plan, aware of what it would lead to, she was also convinced there wasn't another way _out_.

It is the infamous pirate, after all. What he wanted, he got.

With a surge of hope, her survival instincts kicking in, she inhaled a deep breath, ready to scream for help.

But her attackers had spotted her plan miles before it took root, and the lamp she was looking to as a comrade, had turned violently against her as the attacker she had elbowed reached for it and struck her against her temple. The pain shot through her skull and spots of bright light and different shades of coloring, all too strange in a dim-lit room, took host.

She was still conscious, barely, tipping in and out of darkness and crawling back to dusk.

They moved quickly, she noted, every time she slipped back to consciousness, there was something new. First she couldn't move her tongue. A cloth, thick and dry prevented her from speaking. Next her hands, making futile attempts to claw for retention were bound together, and soon her legs scraped against rope, tied tightly and pressing ruthless into her skin.

Afterwards, darkness was all she witnessed.

* * *

The boards beneath her crackle, water sloshes with every push further from land. How far have they gone? How long has she been unconscious? The metal against her skin is a pressing matter. It's a sharp thing. She senses with a light push it could break skin, and with the way it was trailing across her face, inching from her temple to her pulse point, she is much in danger.

''You're a fair thing, aren't you?'' The pirate says with the cold metal and an accent underlying his words. ''Is that why your parents hid you? I wonder, shouldn't beauty be shared with the whole world?''

She swallows when she feels his lips tickle her face. He smells like the sea and Emma curses her blindfolds, because it is one thing to be captured and bound, it is another to be bereaved of all the senses that could make her feel a bit empowered.

The metal scraps across the cloth around her eyes, tearing through the material as it falls down much like the flowers on a dandelion. Suddenly she's staring into the bluest eyes she has ever seen.

And the most _infuriating_ smirk to match.

''You live up to your name, love. Belle,'' he tastes the name, glides it over his tongue, and the proximately between them is daunting. She contemplates scramming back, but the idea of him seeing her frightened makes her hold ground. ''Wasn't it?''

''Let me go,'' she commands in a way, she supposes, princesses do. Though Princess Belle is a different case, much kinder, less violent and not to forget she most certainly wouldn't be giving her captor a glare.

There is a reason Princess Belle was hid, as this pirate had said. The pirate, as she shot a fast glance at the metal, who has a hook as hand. _Of course_ – that's where the name comes from.

Princess Belle is an incredible beauty, so much so her parents feared for her safety. What would happen to her once she was seen by countless of men, would they lose her? Belle's beauty was intoxicating. Emma had seen plentiful of times what a woman could do to a man's mind. Emma would reckon that any man who let himself be led by a woman's beauty deserved whatever malice would befall him, but with Princess Belle, Emma would understand.

She had known Princess Belle since she was just a wee little girl, wearing torn dresses and mud on every scrap of skin one could find. And with her, Emma carried a woolen blanket, her name embodied on top of it. Not to keep her from the cold. She had been living on the streets before the royal family had found her and taken pity on her. And the wind that would strike the kingdom struck hard and relentlessly and for someone just six years of age, a small blanket could do nothing to keep her warm.

But it was the comfort, Emma knew, the comfort of it that kept her safe, even when the shivers raked her body as another relentless wind gushed by.

The castle was incredibly. It was drenched in gold and white with chandeliers high in the ceiling and tables that ran for meters. The floors were marble, clean and shimmering. She could see her reflection and knew instantly that she didn't belong.

Led to a servant's room, for the time being, the King had said, until they found something more suitable. They had closed the door behind her, and hardly a second went by before a girl with hair twirled and twisted in the most odd of ways slid from underneath the bed, a book in tow. She looked at Emma and for the first time, she wasn't looked at with pity or as a filthy _mongrel_ that, according to merchants, would scare customers away.

She was looked at with curiosity, a little bit of glee.

She hugged the woolen blanket tightly against her chest, and the girl in front of her with eyes that twinkled as if she had embedded the stars, asked her if she wanted to hear the tail of Sleeping Beauty.

And Emma had never heard a fairytale before then.

''I'm Belle,'' the princess introduced as she drew her tiny legs underneath her long skirt. Emma sitting next to her looked at the book. Belle, she thought. _Belle_.

''Emma,'' she replied, sticking out her hand. Though in the off-hand thought the girl would refuse to accept it. But Belle didn't refuse. She took hold of it, her smile big and bright, and despite herself, Emma felt the ends of her lips tug upwards too.

After that, they had become best friends while, as she grew older more adapt, Emma served as Princess Belle's personal maid and grew, she liked to think, a little family of her own.

It's been sixteen years since that day, and there isn't a thing Emma wouldn't do for Princess Belle. Allowing herself to be kidnapped in favor of Princess Belle is one of those things.

He grins, shakes his head tauntingly, his hook inches away from her cheek.

''But love, the game has just begun.''

Tensing, she narrows her eyes at him, making him grin wider.

''What game?''

Emma doesn't expect him to reply. Princess Belle's books always had the villain keep secrets and wait for the inevitable denouement before the villain admitted to everything. Then the fight happens. Then the good ones win.

The good always win.

But this is no book, and Hook – who is enjoying himself quite well – leans in closer. She watches his eyes, was suddenly conscious of her shallow clothing. A simply nightgown, one she had taken from the princess' closet in order to _look_ the part.

''Aye, revenge of course.''

She frowns, ''revenge is a game to you?'' Belle would've disagreed. She would make a good case of herself. Teach the brute a bit about proper morals.

Hook laughs a throaty laugh.

''It's the chasing, dear,'' he clarifies. ''The hunt's always been the game. Here's the catch!'' He holds up his hook, ''the game's tricky, harder than most. We're not hunting dears.''

We, she thinks, her captors, perhaps? Are there more?

Surely, it's a ship, and he is after all Captain Hook.

Gods of all, she's _talking_ to _Captain Hook_.

Tentatively, not really looking for answers, but noting that he will tell her whichever road she decides to take. To question or to keep silent, she asks him: ''what are you hunting then?''

The grin on his face doesn't falter. He's pleased, as if he's placed his foot properly on the mountain he's been climbing for a while now. ''A crocodile.''

He rises and walks to the door, suddenly panic shoots through her and she tries to wriggle free from the ropes that bind her feet and hands and make moving an impossible task.

''Wait!'' She yells, forgetting her initially plan to keep vulnerability at bay. He stops, turns around and quirks an _eyebrow_ at her. She fumes. ''You can't just… leave me here!''

He looks at her warily. ''Of course I can, Belle.'' Then he lets his eyes roam from her bottom to top. The urge to cover herself up is strong, but she can't move her hands. ''Such a pity,'' he mutters, leaving her bewildered.

A pity, how so?

He resumes his walk, and Emma, at a loss tries one last slash, in the hopes of… What is she actually hoping for? Is this not what she – they – had endeavored for; to keep Princess Belle safe, to sacrifice Emma until they find her.

She was told as much.

And they will find her.

''I'll have you know people will be looking for me. They probably are _already_ looking for me. I'm the princess of this kingdom. The world won't rest until I'm found. And trust me, they will find me.''

''That's what I'm betting on, love.''

* * *

Princess Belle had opened the book, skimming through the pages. She was swift to read the story; her voice was gentle, fluent for a young child. Emma was captivated, not only because of the easy way Princess Belle went through the lines or the tale of the sleeping princess stuck in an endless dream, but the princess had a way of narrating. A light breeze in her voice, words that seemed so big to Emma and words she didn't know, fledged the princess' mouth.

''What's a sp – spindle?'' Emma asked, tripping over the word that Princess Belle spoke mere a second ago in the easiest of ways.

The princess frowned in thought, her tongue peeking out of the corner. ''It's like a needle. _Really_ sharp.''

''And it had poison?'' Emma gasped.

Princess Belle nodded swiftly, leaning closer as if she was about to share a secret. Emma bobbed her head down to meet her half-way. ''The Evil Queen cursed it,'' she whispered.

* * *

She sits there, mouth agape and bewildered, minutes after he has left.

He _wants_ them the find her.

No ransom or perhaps an off thought of meeting the mysterious, hidden beauty of the kingdom. Money, Emma would understand. The world is filled with greed and pirates are its sanctuary. Wanting to meet the princess Emma would understand, people have dreamed of meeting Princess Belle; bask in her beauty, having fallen in love with the idea of her.

But capturing a princess and _wanting_ to be found, why would anyone do that?

He's out of luck, it seems, since he has one major fault in his plan.

He didn't steal the _princess_.

She relaxes against her restraints, closing her eyes as she releases a relieved sigh. The pirate won't get what he wants.

But– Emma snaps her eyes wide open, they _are_ coming for her. That's what they promised. And when they do, they'll walk straight into Captain Hook's trap.

And not only that, what if he finds out she isn't the princess at all?

Gods of all! What do pirates do to unwanted passengers?

Books spoke of them, people whispered about their vengeance. Emma had heard the stories.

They go off the plank.

* * *

She runs through halls, taking sharp corners and passing twisted walls. The kingdom is a maze. But after spending years between these walls, Princess Belle has learned to find her way with eyes closed.

She passes Ruby, who is balancing a tray in her hands. When the girl with red ribbons in her hair and a red apron sees Belle, she drops the tray, gasping as if she has seen a ghost.

''_Princess?''_

Belle ignores her, dashing for the corner at her right and into a new hallway. Finally she reaches the budding doors of wood and iron, wide and tall. Grasping the clunks hard, she pushes the door open, placing all her weight into the motion. When she used to play hide-and-seek in the castle, she had endeavored to hide behind the doors. Find a comfortable space in the large room beyond, but it was always a battle to open the doors alone. And after a while, sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for nobody to find her, she stopped all together.

Then Emma came and together they opened the doors. Albeit, still putting all their weight into it and struggling to make it _budge_, but they managed.

Emma.

She grasps her bundle of skirts in a fist, trudging forward to the three people standing in front of the multitude windows covered in red curtains and lining vertically in a crescent.

Her father spots her first.

''Belle…''

''Where is she!'' She screams, earning her mother's and Gaston's eyes.

''Darling,'' her mother endeavors. Her face is scrunched up in sorrow, and Belle, as if she had been slapped, staggers back. ''She wanted this.''

She shakes her head, feeling the tears prickle her eyes. ''No,'' she breathes, taking another step back. ''You three _forced_ this upon her. You must have. She would never…'' _Leave me_. ''No!''

Gaston walks forward; making Belle drops the skirts from her hand as she raises both hands to keep him from nearing any closer.

He doesn't stop.

''We will get her back,'' he promises. But his voice is flat and empty and Belle wouldn't be at all surprised if he came up with this idea.

This stupid, stupid idea.

''They are pirates,'' Belle screeches, looking at the attendees. ''They will find out it isn't me and they will _kill_ her!''

''We will find her before that will ever take place,'' her father reassures steadfastly. ''But we had to keep you safe first.''

And sacrifice her only friend. Her best friend. Emma.

''And Emma wanted this. Emma wanted to protect you,'' he continues. ''This is what she wanted.''

Emma's heroic choices don't surprise her; they had been through a lot. One thing Belle had learned was that they would _both_ going through fires for each other.

She couldn't – _wouldn't_ – leave Emma to pirates. What if her parents failed?

''The world thinks it's you,'' Gaston says, and she's aware he's much too close for her comfort. ''And so do the pirates.''

''But for how long?'' She asks; her voice hardly above a whisper.

No one replies her, and thus she flees the room, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall and ignoring Gaston's call for her to come back.

How could they ever match up to _pirates_–?

How could they ever match up to the infamous Pirate Hook nonetheless?

* * *

**TBC**


	2. A different sort of kin

**Across the hundred seas**

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She needs to escape.

Emma squirms on the floor, pulling at her restraints. The rope bites into the tender flesh of her wrists and the gown hikes up high enough to leave her ankles bear; scuffing against loose bits of rope as hard as dried straw. She squeezes her eyes shut, pulling her right hand with as much vigor as she possesses. She moans at the strength it costs her and bites through the tears that threaten to spill. Giving up is not an option. She wrings her left hand so the palm is facing upwards, endeavoring to use the fingertips and push her right hand out and past the rope.

It hardly budges, leaving her skin raw and sore.

She groans, looking around the bleak room. Piled barrels lay scattered across; a splintered and broken wooden mast prompted against one of the barrels in a vacant corner, its scabrous end tugged against the ceiling. The room is made out of brown, faded wood, not much color. It's dark aside from a score of light peeping out of the door Captain Hook had disappeared behind.

She eyes the wooden mast, thin and thick, ten feet away.

''All be damned if I die captive on a _boat_,'' she mutters.

Emma presses her back against the wall, the wood beneath her crackling. Prompting her feet on the floor and using her hands as leverage she pushes herself up, wincing as her sore wrists grace the rope. Balancing her weight against the wall she pushes high until she's standing upright.

Now comes the trickiest part: moving.

Suddenly she halts, a throaty rumble above her head.

_Laughter_.

She cups her head up, the boards above her creak, footsteps and voices she has never heard before bellow, and dust as white as snow, shimmer down and land an inch away from her feet. Holding in her breath, she awaits their passing.

Surely they'll pass.

The feet move, the voices carry further until only the song of winds and seas ring her ears.

It's a cruel game, she thinks, as she lands on her knees and crawls wracked and bruised towards the broken mast. She must be the crocodile Captain Hook was talking about. Less vicious, she reckons, but hunted down just the same.

Her knees move tortuously slow, her feet depraved of all motions. She leans on top of her forearms, uses her belly to scatter across like a snake stricken by the scent of blood, huffing and groaning through the sprouts of pain shooting down her arms and legs.

Her head bumps against a barrel, the sound carries heavily across the silent room. Emma winces and clamps her mouth shut. Not good, not good _at all_. Her eyes move towards the door, awaiting the blue eyed pirate with the glinting hook to step in and throw her off the ship.

But no one comes barging in.

Wasting no time, she stares up at the mast.

Now how to get it down?

She can't climb. That's for sure. She stares at the barrels; the smooth sides and bumps circling the lid, not large in length, piled on top of each other as they stretch to her collarbone.

She gazes around the room and takes in the quantity of barrels.

_That's it._

She crawls to the nearest piled barrels, leaning her shoulder against a wall to prop herself up. She watches the course to the mast. Not too long, she reckons. Leaning her back against the barrels and placing her feet steadfastly underneath her, she pushes. Her feet shift, almost causing her to trip. She regains her balance and hops up, gazes at the barrels behind her and pushes again. She hears the light screeching of the cylinder; the counterfeit off-tuned melody it sings, and hops into place when her back loses contact.

It becomes a continuously rhythm. Push, hop. Push, hop. Push, hop.

When the barrels meet each other, she leaves them be to hunt down other set of barrels and to perform the same conduct; pushing and hopping until finally, she has a trail of barrels that stretch long.

She hops to the mast, her hair jumps around her face every now and then and moves widely across her midriff. A hard push, a thud will do the trick.

She wrings herself past the barrels and to the mast, jutting her shoulder against the wood. It's not nearly as heavy as she had thought it to be.

She listens to the silent air and watches the door. There's a lump in her throat that she manages to swallow down and a clench in her heart she finds unable to do anything about. Once the mast falls on top of the barrels, there's no doubting the ringing thud it will make and there's no way they won't hear a thing. If she hurries and unties her wrists and legs, she may be able to fight them off.

But what then and _dammit_, how does she plan to _escape_?

Emma hesitates. They do still think she's the princess, so they won't hurt her. At least, she _hopes_ they won't. But if they catch her, they'll tie her up again, and most definitely tighter. She involuntary winces at the thought of tighter ropes around her wracked flesh; she'll be bruised for weeks. And how does she plan on fighting _pirates_ off? She, with a broken mast she'll barely be able to keep up against them; skilled sword fighters. It would have been amusing, weren't she actually living the damned situation.

And if, by off-chance, she manages to escape, what is stopping the pirates from going after her? Even worse, what's keeping them from finding out she's not really the princess? She's loathed to think, but if she knows the Princess at all, she's convinced Princess Belle is helping the King and Queen and – Emma shudders – _Gaston_ to find her. Princess Belle is a self-sacrificing person, to keep the pirates from going after Emma she would surely sacrifice herself in exchange.

All would be for naught; the pirates would actually get the person they wanted.

Emma closes her eyes, leaning back. Whatever she does, someone's going to get hurt.

Unless…

It's a big unless, something she knows Princess Belle wouldn't agree upon, but if it's the only way to protect her… Then so be it.

But first, she thinks, pressing her shoulder against the mast, these ropes need to come off.

* * *

The hallways were dark; an orange gleam ghosted the palace's floors past the cracks in all the four doors aligning her sides. She treaded lightly, moved like the silent rustling of the trees beyond marble and gold. She did not know the castle walls as well as the servants whom had dwelled here for years, but for the shallow year Emma had lived here she knew that the next left lead to the palace's kitchen and the coming right to the evermore, high tailed royal garden.

It was the garden she was after.

She held the purse tightly against her side, forestalling the clamor of gold and high valued accessories within. Her shoes, comfortable but practical and different from the tattered and worn ones she wore when the King and Queen took her in, and the breeches she had stolen from a boy, a year or so younger than her and son of a knight, were a perfect fit for a crime she had scheduled months ago.

She slammed her back against the right, outer wall and peeped around the corner. It was not a long run and there were no opened doors or people insight. Around this time, everyone was asleep save from the cooks up and ready to make breakfast for the Royal family.

Emma blinked at the sudden tears forming in the corner of her eyes and inhaled deeply. The sun would not be up for another three hours, if she hurried no one would know of her absence until she was well on a ship to the next land and starting a life of her own.

No one would notice her departure, except Princess Belle.

The thought was so sudden it squeezed at her heartstrings and threatened to blur her sight. Emma slammed her head repeatedly against the wall, endeavoring to remove the doubt from her mind. It was now or never. Pushing off the wall, she twirled and ran out of the heavy double doors and into the crisp night air.

Before her was the renowned garden and indisputable maze; for anyone who had never been inside the palace. But even the King and Queen wouldn't know their way around the convolutions and insularity if they ever dared to step a foot into the make-belief wilderness. The garden was invented for anyone who longed for a place to hide in the presence of nature and its mysteries; how artificial it may seem. It was a garden made for Princess Belle and since Emma's stay in the palace and her friendship with the one day Queen; it had also become _her_ garden and she knew its mysteries as well as Princess Belle knew her books. When the maze reached its ending there was a door, locked it was, but with a hairpin no lock could keep her in.

Emma wouldn't get lost.

She hiked the purse over her shoulder, starting her walk, but the stern cough a few meters away paled her and stopped her in her path.

She closed her eyes, contemplating if a quick run into the maze would deter her pursuer. Surely this person couldn't master the tricks the maze had to offer?

''Emma.''

Her heart clumsily tripped over a beat.

_No_, a quick run wouldn't save her.

She tersely turned around, dropping the bag of gold onto the grass. It clamored and Emma winced at the lacerated silence and at what the girl before her could possibly think of the noise.

Princess Belle's eyes shifted to the bag. Even in the night Emma could see the anguished look on her face.

''Emma?'' She whispered.

The brunet was shivering, but her arms never came up to keep in some of her body warmth. The meager, but woven out of fine silk gown, was too thin around her bony shape.

She didn't utter a word and her shivering knees were torn between bending over, ripping the purse from the ground and taking off into the maze. And falling to her buttocks, _tired_ of running.

In the middle of the night there were stars inside Princess Belle's eyes. They shimmered like the ones inside the sky and fell like the fallen ones the Princess had gushed over when she narrated stories and ushered Emma to _make a wish_.

''Why,'' her voice broke into a whimper and it seemed as if the Princess was about to fall and Emma cursed her everlasting need to run.

She cupped her head up to level the Princess with a glare. This family cannot keep her. This family did not _own_ her.

Emma did not _have_ a family.

But her eyes softened and her heavy head bowed forward to the dew immersed grass.

''This is not my home,'' she whispered to the grass, to the sky, to the air, to the Princess.

Princess Belle sniffed hard and when Emma looked up, she saw the Princess' trembling hand move swiftly across her face.

''This never felt like home to me either,'' Princess Belle hiccupped, ''until you came.''

* * *

Sailors' curses and boots as heavy as falling bricks chime above her head, dust shimmies to the floor in heaps and the once scorch of light peeping through the door brightens as if someone has started a burning yellow fire.

There's the sound of jingling keys and the squeak of an unlocking lock, but no one steps in. She can hear shuffling behind the door, low whispers of men that kedge of cautious steps, _tread lightly_ and watch out for the: ''vixen of a princess with a wicked right arm,'' then the door slams open and Emma stares right at the point of a gleaming sword.

She yelps.

The pirate holding the sword scrutinizes her and when he's aware she's unarmed he yells, ''Grab her!''

''Wait!'' She exclaims at the sudden burst of men and hands flailing over her arms and pushing her down on her knees. There's a jab between her shoulder blades and several of faces, but all seem to come down to scarred and _wild_.

She does not resist, but her hands shake and she cannot stop her eyes from shooting across the room and into the light for a way out.

The men around her murmur and Emma catches faint conversations where one man asks where the _bloody hell_ the Captain is and Emma shivers because she knows that means facing the blue eyed, hooked and – admirably – handsome pirate, and another man mutters in awe at the torn rope on the floor, earning agreements from different, unseen ends.

The sword that had been facing her moves dangerously closer towards her windpipe, the point but a hairsbreadth away from pricking her skin. She looks at the pirate's eyes, dark they are, brown like the planks she's kneeling on.

The pirate looks around, his eyes finally falling on the rope she had discarded on the floor. ''I don't know how you did it,'' he starts with a gruff voice. ''But rest assured, fool us once, shame on you, fool us twice, shame on us. There will be no second time. Rope!''

She squeaks at the pull on her hands, the thought of more rope around her bruised skin has her baulking back, ignoring the point gracing her throat every now and then. She pulls her head back to keep the sharp weapon from tearing her apart, but the pirate inclines his hand and the point finally pinches her flesh.

He won't actually slice her throat off, will he? But despite the threat pressed against her neck, she does not for once quiet her baulking, even managing to claw and draw out blood out of the hands of one of her attackers.

The voice that jeers at her head sounds exactly like the abductor she had punched.

''Matthew, easy on that thing you're waving around, will you?''

Her eyes shoot up and she's momentarily pulled out of her struggle to break free.

Captain Hook.

She does not know whether to be relieved as the pirate with the sword steps down or anxious because Captain Hook could do far more worse if the stories have any hearsay to live up to.

Her moment of pause ensures the men behind to grab a firm hold of her painful wrists. She winces and shudders when another set of rope graces her skin.

''Enough with the rope!'' She exclaims, scrunching her nose as she feels the binds.

She searches her brain for anything courteous to say. ''What will they – _my parents_ have to say if they find out I've been treated so brutally?''

''We're a bunch of barbarians?'' A man behind her says.

''Pirates,'' another wistfully throws in.

Captain Hook slowly draws out an eyebrow and she can't help but look at him with what she hopes is her best piteously face, and for someone who had lived on streets crawling with thieves, outlaws and fallen magicians of the worst sort as a young, very short of her age little girl, it had been easy to acquire pity from all corners.

Captain Hook smiles, making her huff, her shoulders slump as she gives up the fight.

For now, at least.

''Make sure the rope is tighter,'' Matthew juts his sword behind her. The rope digs into her skin. ''Three double knot – six double knot it. Throw in sailor's knots, four different kinds of rope. Don't shy away.'' He narrows his eyes on her. ''I don't care if she _bleeds_. You make sure its _tigh–_''

''Hold up now, lass,'' Hook interferes. She winces as another knot tugs her wrists together. ''She won't be so useful if she doesn't have any _hands_.'' He grins, whipping out his hook. ''Some of use aren't so blessed at being skilled one-handed, let alone handless.''

He rakes his eyes over her body, making her bite her lip to keep from saying anything un-princess-like with a very unladylike tongue.

''Though, I must say, I like my women tied up.''

''Is that the only way you can have your women at all, pirate,'' Emma gnaws.

Hook laughs, ''I promise you Princess, _all_ my women come freely.''

And she can't help the shiver that shoots through her body at the look he gives her. She had seen the ocean from afar, a soft blue, much like the morning sky. But this pirate hasn't the eyes of the morning sky or the calm sea – it is night, with him. Dark and dangerous and Emma is intrigued, she has never admired the night as much. It is the stars that were captivating, never the night.

Though today, the night is as promising.

She looks away, biting past the ache in her wrists.

This cannot all be for naught. She chants; this _cannot_ all be for naught.

''Wait,'' Hook says. The binding stops and leaves the lull of a dull ache. Matthew looks at his Captain as if he's trying to unfold a secret.

Captain Hook walks across the room; he watches the boards on the floor, the scars on the walls. When he reaches the barrels and the mast on top, he scratches the point of his hook over the hewn surface.

''Clever,'' he mutters, than he levels her with the same seeking gaze. ''Very clever.''

''Captain,'' one of the pirates behind her starts, ''what do you propose we do to her?''

The hook cups his under lip. He takes a few contemplating steps towards her, until he's close enough for her to see the tops of his knees and it to require strain in her neck to look up at his face.

''Take the rope off.''

''Captain?'' Matthew replies puzzled.

''Aye,'' he says. ''And bring her to my chambers.''

''But…''

Hook turns around, already making way for the door, leaving his crew and her, thunderstruck.

* * *

They push her inside his room abrasively, one of the pirates leers at her, but instead of folding, she glares as haughty as she can. She assumes it's not much of a princess' glare, too cold and too dangerous, too much Emma and far too wild.

The door shuts behind her.

She looks down at the small treads, lets her eyes roam around the room. It's not much of a presence, as bare as the chamber she was to sit in. It doesn't look like Hook has any treasured possession, but on a ship, can one really carry much possession? Her hand touches her right wrist. With the bright light in this room she is able to see her bruises, blue and red, with cracked skin and bloodshot curst. Her stomach twists unwelcomingly.

''There you are, love.''

He sits at a desk she had not yet seen, propped near a window overlooking the sea. It's a terrifying occurrence, as she looks around. She's hostage on a ship with a renowned pirate not far ahead, but there's a beautiful sea not far behind either and Emma is delirious of _this_ danger and _that_ beauty so pesky entwined. His long jacket is hanging over the chair, his shirt has been unbuttoned ever further. Captain Hook looks much too comfortable for her taste.

She descends the stairs and he rises, she makes sure to stick to his closet and bed lamp, anything really that could serve as a weapon if things took a turn for the worst. On his desk, for example, are pens and an ink jar, even papers could serve as a method of diversion if she aimed right.

He walks around her and she makes sure to touch his desk, let her fingers roam not too obvious to the pen he was using. Curiously her eyes drift to the paper on the desk, the scribbles of what she can only presume is his handwriting. There's a date above it, his journal perhaps, torn and loose instead of tucked and vast in a book. Another odd thing, she reckons.

''What you did was quite remarkable.'' His voice continues to baffle her, the drawl and the refine; he can make any sentence sound fair.

But Emma has always been able to pick out a lie.

''Was it?'' She humors him, twirling past him so the desk lies in between.

He has a glint, a dangerous glint, in his blue eyes.

''Aye,'' he crosses his arms across his chest, and damn him – _damn her_ – but her eyes move to his biceps and his chest involuntary. ''Using a mast to free yourself from those awful binds,'' a slow grin spreads across his face. ''You look like a princess, the fairest of them all, ay, but your heart is wilder than the seas, your wit sharper than a blade and your heart as much as a pirate as any of us.''

She snorts at the insult, ''I am none like you!''

''Worse, perhaps?''

''Not even close!''

He's still grinning, watching her carefully.

''You're blonde,'' he says and she frowns.

''And here I thought I had been a redhead all my life,'' she howls sarcastically.

Captain Hook walks around the desk, until he's close enough for Emma to see the faint scar aligning diagonal across one side of his cheek.

''The King and Queen are brunets, I seem to recall.''

''And I am blonde.''

''And you are blonde.''

She tries to stifle the panic rising inside the pit of her chest as she raises her chin, leveling him up with what she hopes is a proper glare.

He raises his hook, brushing the cold metal against her cheek. A gasp bubbles in her throat, but she suppresses the urge as she gnaws her teeth together.

''Do I frighten you, darling?''

''I do not fear anyone.''

His eyes move across her face, the hook still in place. ''You are somewhat of an open book,'' he hums. ''You have eyes that speak of tales as mysterious as the yet unknown hundred seas.''

He suddenly pulls away from her and she's struck by the confusing cold he leaves.

It's as she inhales a deep breath that she realizes she's been holding it the entire time.

''Tell me, Princess Belle,'' he aligns his papers from her view and stacks them into the corner. ''Have you ever been to Storybook?''

''Storybook?'' She curses the breathy sound of her voice.

''Aye, It's an island, a few hours away. Quite forsaken, but beautiful, I was told,'' he watches her face, licks his lips.

She shakes her head. ''I've never been outside of my castle.''

He nods. ''I was told so,'' than he shrugs. ''For someone so unafraid of the unknown, I reckoned you had seen quite a few things in your life.''

''I haven't.''

But Princess Belle would have loved to sail on a ship and move across the seas and find adventure beyond her castle walls.

She feels a haul of chagrin for the Princess.

''It's alright, darling,'' he says, having thought her vexation was for _herself_ and not the actual Princess Belle. ''You'll see it soon enough.''

She frowns at that. ''What are we going to do at Storybook? I thought you were trying to get… your crocodile?''

''This _is_ for my crocodile, love.'' He steps closer, watching her hands, her chest and her face. Damn that gown. ''Though, I suppose, you'll experience some adventure and that _is_ for _you_,'' his voice has become breathier, sweeter, intoxicating like a glass of wine.

''Please,'' she starts. ''This was your plan all along. None of this is for me.'' Her fingers move subconsciously towards her right wrist. ''Can I go back to my chambers or was there something else you wanted to discuss with me?''

He looks between their hands and his inches closer towards hers, with fingertips looking for bruises and cuts. Then he notes what he's doing and pulls it back and presses it against his side.

''You may be excused. I simply,'' he looks into her eyes. ''Wanted to bask in your beauty.''

''You are too kind,'' she flattens, but there's an annoying little pull in her chest that makes her push away from the pirate and walk towards the door.

''I'll tell them not to bind you anymore,'' he doesn't turn around. ''It's the least I can do.''

She scowls, as if he cares at all about her health.

She knocks on the door, but before it opens and reveals the abrasive men who had pushed her into this room, she spares one last glance behind her to meet those eyes again. To find the dark night or the cold sea or simply the blue that leaves her with no words.

But when she looks, he still hasn't turned around.

* * *

Emma didn't run away after Princess Belle's confession.

The Princess found her family when the King and Queen came back with a street rat and the street rat found her kin when a girl offered to read her a story and she acknowledged that before books and tales, she had never heard a real story before.

* * *

**TBC**


End file.
